Lost in Translation: The Gaza War

If only vibes too could be translated!

Drawing inferences or lessons is an art.

A researcher placed a frog on a table and snapped, “Froggie jump!”

The frog jumped and landed two feet away.

The man, in quest of knowledge, scribbled an observation on his notepad and put the frog back at the starting point and chopped one of its hind legs. “Froggie jump!” he yelled again retaining the pitch and the loudness of the previous occasion.

The frog jumped. This time, it landed just about a foot away.

With great anticipation, the academic chopped the other hind leg of the helpless being and repeated the exercise. The profusely bleeding frog didn’t move an inch. The scholar repeated, “Froggie jump,” several times, varying the pitch and loudness of his command.

Then, with the air of an Archimedes discovering the principle of buoyancy, he noted: “A frog becomes deaf when its hind legs are severed.”

In a study on the impact of major historical events on the environment, published over a dozen years ago, it was theorised that some occurances could have impacted the climate due to the return of forests after depopulation; one of the events studied was the Mongol invasion of the 13^th and 14^th Century. It was revealed that 40 million deaths during the Mongol conquests caused large areas of cultivated land to grow thick once again with trees, which absorbed carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Ecologists believe it may be one of the first ever cases of successful man-made global cooling. Thus, Genghis Khan was the greenest invader in history.

The ecologists who arrived at the green conclusion didn’t have the tools or, more probably, they didn’t have the inclination to comment on the kind of 40 million people killed by the Green Genghis. Among those put to sword, there could have been artists, painters, thinkers and social scientists who might have put the earth back on a greener track? May be. May not be.

It is only a matter of time, some social scientist, somewhere, will draw similar conclusions about the (good) environmental impact of the recent wars. More than 90 million (including civilians) have died in the wars since WW I (including only the major wars with casualties in excess of 25,000). Blame it on the fog of war—this estimate of ~90 million⁺ could be grossly incorrect. This figure does not include the Covid deaths.

Most wars have their genesis in the failure of dialogue and diplomacy. And when two sides do go to war, they fight to win it, and impose their will on the vanquished. Incidentally, the numbers that die on one side are not compensated by the number killed on the other side—they add up. In military academies and war colleges all over the world, they teach the art and the Principles of War. The knowledge gleaned from the writings of Kautilya, Sun Tzu, Clausewitz and their ilk, is passed on from a generation to another. The future leaders study campaigns, and try to figure out whether or not the military wisdom of the yore was put to use. The effort is to establish, to what extent the victor and the vanquished adhered to the proven warfighting tactics/ strategy.

The Ukraine War and, now the War in Gaza (some call it the War on Gaza, and with good reason, which depends where they stand and how their glasses are tinted), has necessitated the need to refine and redefine warfighting for the ones executing the will of the political leadership. A few might agree (most others will agree absolutely) to cram the sum and substance of all military knowledge in just four words: “LIVE AND LET DIE!”

“Live and let die!” that is what exactly the Ukrainians, the Russians, the Israelis and the members of Hamas are trying to achieve even as the cheerleaders, the US, the UK, the NATO and Iran etc are eagerly awaiting the opportunity to enter the fray.

Meanwhile, in the International Court of Justice (ICJ), the ‘genocide’ issue led to an animated debate. South African advocates painted a vivid picture of Israeli atrocities in Gaza. The Israeli rebuttal was passionate and strong. Rhetoric at the Hague boiled down to the definition of ‘genocide’ and ‘the intention to kill.’ At one point, the chair had to advise the Israeli representative to go slow to enable the translators and interpreters to keep pace. Speed notwithstanding, it is axiomatic that some meaning is always lost in translation. How then, can one expect people to understand each other, let alone be sympathetic? There is no way yet, to translate the ‘vibes.’ It is no wonder then, that the interim order of a toothless ICJ sounds so hesitant. The UN body has directed Israel to prevent genocide (mind the subtle difference between ‘preventing’ and ‘stopping’) in Gaza. As it stands, the ICJ is certainly not blaming Israel for the said crime. It has not ordered an immediate ceasefire.

The Gaza War has the potential to engulf many more actors and stakeholders in its raging flames. It is an unparalleled crisis. It is said that the worst corners of hell are reserved for those who maintain neutrality in times of crisis.

Time is NOW to speak up and work towards preventing further bloodshed.

Many wrongs have been committed since the birth of Israel in 1948. All those wrongs do not add up to make a right. They also do not justify either the Hamas raid on Israel on October 7, 2023 or the Israeli action following that attack. One of the possible ways out of the present crisis is the release of the Israeli hostages followed immediately by a ceasefire. If Israel decides to continue to pursue its aim of eliminating Hamas even after release of its hostages, it might succeed in its mission (although that is an extremely doubtful proposition) but in the process, it will sow the seeds for still worse to happen.

The writing on the wall is legible and clear. May sense prevail.

Tathastu!

Comments

Colonel Jamshed Hussain (Veteran) — Reasons are invented to justify most violent actions, including wars. Winners prevail, hence history is recorded as viewed by a victor. Seeds sown by imperial powers of yesteryears, will continue to fester conflicts…So Gazas and Ukraines will continue.. Ashok👍

Air Commodore Roj Assey (Veteran) — Very well written, Ashok.
I have a video clip of the Israeli ambassador speaking at the UN, a couple of weeks ago. He made two major points ….
If Hamas returns all the hostages, Israel will stop its offensive the next day.
Nothing is more important to Israel than its own survival – irrespective of what the world does, or thinks.
On the first point, this statement was made by an official rep of Israel and is a guarantee made in front of a world audience.
On the second point, ever since Israel declared its independence on 14 May 1948, after the dramatic Resolution taken in the UN on 29 Nov 1947, Israel has had to fight for its survival. A Russian Mig or an Israeli Mirage takes only a few minutes to cross the entire country of Israel.
There has been an enormous amount of heated, prejudiced, passionate and emotional talk and writing about the crisis. How much of it is true, depends, as you very aptly quoted, on how the glasses are tinted. I would suggest that 99 per cent – at least – of what is written, is a mix of fact and outright fiction.
But I cannot fault Israel’s desire to survive.

“the”

“Is INDIA prepared for the dire consequences?”

This morning my little grandnephew asked me, “Dadu, why do we say, ‘the US, the UK, the UAE?’ Why don’t we say, ‘the India’?”

“It is rather simple, my child,” I said, “When the name of a country suggests that it is a group of states or a confederation or a federation, we use ‘the‘ before their names like, the United States, the United Kingdom, the United Arab Emirates….”

“I see,” Kartik nodded.

“Not only that…,” I added to enlighten him further, “…the names of some countries which are archipelagos or groups of islands, are also preceded by ‘the‘ for example the Maldives and the Seychelles.”

“I will not use ‘the’ with Maldives. I don’t like that country. The Indian troops risked their lives for their President and we have been rushing to help them in their times of need, yet they speak with disrespect for our Prime Minister. They are bad people!”

“Language has nothing to do with relations between countries,” I chuckled. “Grammar is not governed by feelings, Maldives will continue to be called, the Maldives. Your dislike for that country doesn’t change anything. Relations between countries are temporary; only interests are permanent. Yesterday the Maldives were with us; today they are with China. Who knows, tomorrow they might end up being without any one on their side when China discards them like a spent tissue.”

A pout on the little lips, lateral movement of the eyeballs, and a shrug of his little shoulders was Kartik’s way of conveying his displeasure about this particular rule of the English grammar. He continued paying attention regardless.

“Not only that, we use ‘the’ before names of groups/ organisations that suggest coming together of several entities. For example, the United Nations, the World Health Organisation and…,” I paused to think of names of more organisations.

“In that case it would be grammatically correct to use ‘the’ with India too,” the little one spoke with sparkling eyes. “I.N.D.I.A. stands for ‘Indian National Developmental Inclusive Alliance’ and meets the criteria of being a coalition of several entities?”

That question put me in a tailspin. I remained silent for a long minute until Kartik tugged me, “Isn’t it Dadu?

I scraped the inside of my cranium for the special wisdom required to answer such questions. Then I spoke hesitantly. “Well, theoretically you’d be right if you use ‘the’ before I.N.D.I.A. But as it stands, there is nothing like I.N.D.I.A. It is just a group of ambitious people trying to remain relevant in Indian politics by any means. Rather than setting an agenda for the country, their only aim is to remove the ruling dispensation, and their primary concern is ‘seat sharing.’ Men apart, every man there is a candidate for the post of prime minister. As of now I.N.D.I.A. exists only as a concept.”

The quizzical look on Kartik’s face suggested that he didn’t understand a word of what I had said. But does either India or I.N.D.I.A. visualise the consequences of having a weak, rudderless and meaningless opposition?

Comments

Wing Commander Sanjay Sharma (IAF Veteran) — If my Grandson were to grill me like you were fried, I shall take apolitical asylum in Djibouti.😱😱🤯🤯

Wing Commander Vijay Ambre (IAF Veteran)—You need a strong and united opposition for a vibrant parliamentary democracy. The present conglomeration in the opposition is not likely to provide that after the general elections, especially if the present government returns to power.
The Modi government is doing a very good job on all fronts and deserves another term for internal and external policy continuity.

Colonel Jamshed Hussain (Indian Army Veteran)—Very interesting…use of grammer to drive home a point..for a meaningful democracy, a strong opposition is as important…. The small one for weekend, is razor sharp in its thought..Ashok, my compliments.👍 Stay blessed🙏

Air Marshal PV Athawale (IAF Veteran—Beautifully put across Ashok, through Kartik, something which “the politicians” scream aloud every evening on the TV, and no one understands!

“Malé will sink!”

Can India let the dragon keep trampling its interests?

At noon on November the 3^rd, 1988, it was an anxious moment in the Ops Room of Army Headquarters in Delhi. The who’s who of the Indian political and military leadership, and the sharpest brains of the diplomatic corps had gotten together to plan the rescue of the then Maldivian president surrounded by blood-thirsty armed men. The lingering fear was that of the IAF aircraft, with the troops on board, being blown up by the rebels at the time of touchdown. There were suggestions to respond with maximum force. With a view to outdo the rebels, a general officer suggested inducting more troops than the number that had been proposed by the Army Chief. Humour was not lost on a witty Ronen Sen—a troubleshooter of a diplomat—who said, “Let’s not induct so many troops—the island will sink under their weight.”

Thankfully, Malé didn’t sink under the weight of the Indian military contingent then. Also, in the following decades the islands didn’t submerge despite the weight of the infrastructure developed, mostly gratis, by India. Even the weight of the feeling of indebtedness for the assistance provided by India in their times of various crises couldn’t dunk the islands.

Occasionally, when their leadership was getting ensnared by Beijing, well-meaning islanders—and there is a large number of them—were in touch with Indian leadership and intelligentsia. But India did not heed their clamour for help. Delhi didn’t interfere considering that it was the prerogative of the Maldivian leadership. The result was that the Maldives unfairly cancelled many contracts awarded to the Indian firms (including the $511 million airport project bagged by GMR) and even leased islands to Beijing which are being used as observation posts to snoop on India. This certainly was not what India had bargained for its non-interference in its neighbour’s affairs.

A cross-section of people on either side feel that both India and the Maldives will be the losers as a result of the current spat. They conclude, and rightly so, that China will gain immensely from this tiff. So, should India accept this Malé-Beijing bonhomie as fait accompli? Certainly not, particularly if it is detrimental to India’s strategic interests. Silence is not a rewarding policy in a world of strategic communication. India needs to do more than just conveying its displeasure over Malé’s actions.

People also say that China is economically too powerful to be confronted. The diplomacy we have followed over the years has been trumped at each step by the lure of Chinese investments. It is, therefore, no wonder that Malé is following in the footsteps of Nepal, Bhutan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. But, can India let the dragon keep trampling its interests? Time and energy need not be devoted to answering that rhetorical question. China must not continue to get things on a platter.

India must do everything possible to make Beijing pay the cost for encroaching its interests. In the bargain, if Malé suffers, so be it; they have asked for it. All the possible ways in which India can counter China in the Maldives (and elsewhere)—and there are very many of them—may be adopted discreetly, without making a hue and cry. Keeping Beijing guessing will also serve a definite purpose.

President Mohamed Moizzu who generated the anti-India wave and rode it to success in the presidential election is certainly not in step with Chi. Now in Beijing, he’s trying to get some favours. Among others, China has promised additional flights and tourists to Malé. That will more than make up for the loss of revenue due to Indians not touring the Maldives. Hopefully, for the time being. But for sure, among the tourists will be Chinese agents (and possibly carriers of new variants of Covid) whose presence, the Maldives will regret at some point of time in the not too distant future.

What can India do?

***Malé incurred heavy losses during the pandemic***

The frenzy will be over soon. When the dust settles, for us Indians, the most difficult thing will be to acknowledge the blind spots so undiplomatically pointed out by the Maldivian ministers. Although, their comments were related to tourism in the Lakshadweep, it will be in our interest to consider tourism as a whole—everywhere in India.

India has umpteen exotic locations to promote tourism—pristine unexplored beaches, mountain treks, jungle safaris, bird sanctuaries and reserve forests. We have historical monuments and places of worship. Tourism for adventure sports, medical care, naturopathy, meditation and Yoga is already flourishing. People also travel for art, culture, theatre, film and photography… the list is long and ever growing. Limits are posed by imagination alone. Each of these has its peculiarities—means of transport, accommodation, food, equipment and above all people who can communicate well. India must go all guns blazing, and create infrastructure and train human resource to give the tourists an experience. Some sincere and meaningful introspection is vital as we take on the adversaries.

Need more be said!?

[Hereafter, how to deal with the Maldivians visiting India for medicare, education or any other purpose—is a subject for another day.]

Comments

Well written, Chordia; as usual! Thought provoking too…really need to up the ante in tourism….we have a long way to go…’coz, I feel genetically we are crooks…especially those who can make a difference..out for the big buck!! ~ Air Vice Marshal TPS Dhillon (IAF Veteran)

Well timed and articulated. India just has 1.6% of global share of tourism. As rightly put by you that we have everything to offer. Beaches, mountains, deserts, monuments, buildings , temples with their unbelievable architecture, yoga, massages, traditional music and dances not to forget medical and religious tourism. We have to exploit all these but for that we have to create infrastructure and also improve our image as a nation. It is difficult to digest that having a destination wedding in India cost three times more than in Bali. ~ Group Captain Sanjiv Aggarwal (IAF Veteran)

Also read

“O Maldives!”

O Maldives!

Will the man in the street of Malé be able to bear the outcome of the spat between India and the Maldives?

The one, and the only time I have ever been to the Maldives was without a passport, visa or an air ticket. Yet there was a red-carpet welcome. The Maldivians, their Government and their President in particular, were thankful for that visit of ours. In a handwritten note which he gave me, a senior military officer had expressed the sentiment: “Your Governments kind assistance is very much appreciated by our Force. National Security Service.” Signed Major Mohamed Zahir 4/11/88. He also presented me a cap badge and a formation sign of the NSS as souvenirs. “Do come over again in better times,” he had said, extending an invitation to me to the island nation. Perhaps that generous offer from a grateful Maldivian has become time-barred.

That was in November 1988—the Indian Armed Forces had provided succour to the then Government of Mr MA Gayoom in the midst of an attempted coup. The IAF had airlifted the paratroopers from Agra to Malé (2600km away); the paratroopers had rescued the President and restored calm. The Indian Navy had rounded up the fleeing rebels.

Much bloodshed was avoided; the medics of the Indian Army had taken over the Central Hospital to provide care to the wounded. The authorities had fallen short of words to appreciate the gesture (read the letter). The Indian troops remained in the Maldives for six months providing security cover and training the Maldivian forces.

And that was nearly 35 years ago.

*Is the Prez being mentored/ chastised?*

Time, tide and China have caused the erosion of the relationship that had been built on mutual trust and cooperation over the intervening decades. In the Maldives of President Mohamed Moizzu, the presence of an Indian helicopter and a handful of men—stationed to provide assistance to the Maldivians with the explicit understanding with the previous governments—is no longer acceptable. The manner in which it has been put forth by the man speaks volumes about his standing as the President of a sovereign country. Mind his body language and that of the Al Jazeera anchor during his recent interview to the television channel. The President is sitting up like a schoolboy answering the anchor who is leaning back, cross legged and pointing a pencil at him like a teacher. During their interaction, he appeared fidgety as if he were under instructions from his bosses to tow a particular line.

For sure, minds in Delhi will be working overtime to establish how things have come to such a pass, and more importantly, how to turn the tide. At the same time, the leaderships in Beijing and Malé must be looking forward to extracting the maximum they can from their present bonhomie. The people of Maldives will feel the effect of the Chinese bear hug sooner than later. It’ll be myopic on their part to ignore the outcome of Beijing’s largesse to Pakistan and Sri Lanka, and the result of China’s benevolence in Africa and South America.

Knowing the sentimental Indian, it wouldn’t be long before the ripples caused by #EXPLOREINDIANISLANDS and #boycottmaldives turn into waves. And, it shouldn’t be surprising if those waves turn into a tidal waves and then, into a tsunami that takes a small toll on Maldivian Tourism. As it appears, many have already reworked their plans (changed the destination from the Maldives to the Lakshadweep). A more likely and significant positive spinoff of the spat triggered by the unsavoury comment of a Maldivian politician (on Prime Minister Modi’s call to make Indian islands a tourist destination) would be an improvement in the facilities that our islands provide.

With a few Bollywood celebs echoing the anti-Maldives sentiment, investors might reconsider their plans of shooting their films on locales in the Maldives. A few cancellations will be enough for the Maldivians to feel the heat. Not long ago, I had advised my friends working on two of my stories—one inspired by Operation Cactus, and the other, based on a life changing event in the life of a military veteran—to plan shooting in the Lakshadweep rather than the Maldives. Although those suggestions were purely to keep the costs down, the present euphoria is nudging the decision further in this direction.

In the foreseeable future, Maldivians are less likely to give up visiting India for medical care or enrolling in Indian educational institutions or for other reasons. Visiting India is a need for the Maldivians.

A dispassionate cost benefit analysis of the current spat might show a little gain (or at least, NO LOSS) for India in the near future. The long-term tangible and intangible losses for the Maldives might be unbearable. Needless to say, the islands leased by the Maldives to Beijing have been a thorn in India’s side. Interestingly, the wisdom of an old Hindi proverb boils down to: “Use a thorn to take out a thorn.”

A dragon doesn’t have a soft belly. But it shouldn’t be impossible to find some delicate spots to insert a few needles to relieve the pain in India’s side. I am sure Jay (read Jai, if you will) is at it.

[Note: As I post this article, news of suspension of three Maldivian Ministers for their derogatory remarks against Prime Minister Narendra Modi, is making headlines. Will this action by President Mohamed Moizzu, stop the impending tsunami? Let’s wait and watch.]

Now read… “Malé will sink!”

Remembering Operation Cactus: (The Maldives, November 3, 1988)

Australia Day & Operation Cactus

Jay, Veeru and India China Relations

Dealing with the Darned Dragon: Preface

Dealing with the Darned Dragon-I: Border Infrastructure

Dealing with the Darned Dragon-II: Escape Hatch

Dealing with the Darned Dragon-III: A Lesson from Pearl Harbour

Dealing with the Darned Dragon-IV: Exercising (with) the Nuclear Option

Monkey Musing

Just how to sit on an issue and mull over it…

On Satisfaction-scale

Trying to measure up on the satisfaction scale…

A tea vendor serving hot tea. Ujjain (MP)

The Second-Best Thing About Playing Golf

Is golfing merely scything with expensive equipment?

“Chordia, why don’t you start playing golf?” I remember the day, nearly 35 years ago, when our Air Officer Commanding (AOC) at No 24 Equipment Depot, Manauri posed that question to me. In fact, it wasn’t really a question. I felt it was an oblique recommendation to play the game. At least, the old man’s intonation suggested that. Those days I used to enjoy sweating on the football field. About golf, I had a low opinion; I felt it was like scything with expensive equipment. I had just worn the Squadron Leader rank—inside me was a fidgety Flight Lieutenant who spoke first and thought later. Therefore, I am not surprised that I responded promptly with a polite smirk. Yes, a smirk can be polite, pleasant.

“Sir,” I blurted out, “I think golf is meant for the elderly and the moneyed; and may be… for senior officers. I do not belong to any of those categories of beings.”

With that utterance, I had dropped a brick, if not a bomb. I realised it as soon as the words left my mouth. So, I quickly replaced my polite smirk with a smile. And then, the actor in me worked overtime to look like an innocent youngster trying to be jocular.

The AOC didn’t show an iota of dissatisfaction on his favourite game being seen in a not-so-good light. He rather surprised me with a chuckle, “Beta (son), Playing, or not playing golf, and when to start playing, is a choice. You may choose not to play; but it’s definitely time you refined your ideas. Young people are taking to golf and it is not so expensive—you can buy a half set for pittance. That the game is meant for senior officers, is a myth.”

In the following week, he sent me to HQ Central Air Command to study their course and replicate their ‘Mini Golf Course’—a big putting green with nine holes and interesting obstacles. He patted me for creating ‘a marvel’ for Manauri as he called it. Crazy putting green—it was like playing marbles with putters. I wasn’t impressed; did not make a beginning. The AOC gave up on me when I refused to see the grass on the other side of the fence, let alone appreciating its greenness.

Around the same time, in another part of the world, a teenager, Eldrick Tont Woods (15)—nearly half my age—had made waves by winning the US Junior Amateur Golf Champion title. Soon, the world would know him as Tiger Woods. Clearly, old age wasn’t a criterion; people of all ages were golfing.

A year later, I was in Kanpur on posting. My work schedule gave me time to spare after office hours, and the golf course was next door. This time on, it was an Ordnance Corps officer, a Major, who nudged me, “Why don’t you give the game a try? The course is so close to your residence.” He dragged me to the greens.

The Kanpur Golf Course is scenic. The fairways run parallel to the Ganges. The river is so close that sometimes wayward balls land up in the majestically flowing waters. The saying goes: “You have to offer a few balls as guru-dakshina to Gangaji (teacher’s fee to the Ganges) to learn golf.” There are natural undulations, and trees with large canopies, which pose varying degrees of enjoyable challenges. The water hazards, the bunkers and the sand traps are positioned at vantage points to get the best out of a player; they get the better of some. Gentle breeze laden with fragrance of freshly blooming flowers and the chirping birds transport one to a different world. The gazebo next to the club-house provides a commanding view of the Course as one sips a cup of freshly brewed coffee. It is heavenly; it is enticing!

I couldn’t resist the temptation and gave the game a try. In those days (early 1990s), the Kanpur fairways had a lot of pebbles; preferred lie was allowed all along the course. That made it less humiliating and easier for a beginner like me to pick up the game. I was soon addicted. That little change of mind—to give the game a try—led to a big regret of my life: “Why didn’t I start playing golf earlier?” The AOC’s chuckle and his advice to refine my thoughts about the game echoed in my mind. To this day, those thoughts keep returning. I have realised the importance of trying things rather than rejecting them at face value or on the basis of perceptions.

As if to make up for the lost time, I began playing golf like a man possessed—never missing an opportunity to swing. Since Kanpur, I must have walked a few thousand kilometres with a golf club in my hand. And, I must have spent days (cumulative time) searching my golf balls in the wilderness. In Tezpur, where I was a forced bachelor—Chhaya and Mudit had stayed back in Delhi for Mudit’s schooling—I played golf every day, for two and a half years, except when I was outstation. I recall a sunny Sunday when I played 45 holes through the day. Even the rains couldn’t stop some of us. We would continue playing if it started raining after we had teed-off and would take lateral drops if there were puddles in the fairways. Playing on some of the courses maintained by the grazing cattle, in the tea gardens of the exotic east was unadulterated fun. One day, half way through the game, we were visited by a group of elephants, 30 or 40 of them. Majestic!

Playing with course-mates and friends has always been fun. Most golfers will agree that good company matters; some will argue that company matters the most. On numerous occasions, when I have reached the course without a booking, I have had the opportunity to play with interesting strangers. I have written about one, a Khushwant Singh-like old Sikh gentleman who shared a pearl of wisdom on ‘when to approach Guru Nanakji to influence one’s game of golf (and life)’.

Somehow my caddies have never been impressed by my game: “Sir, keep your head down!” “Sir, you aren’t following through.” “Sir, you are not keeping your eyes on the ball.” “Sir, you are applying too much force.” And the most hard hitting, “Sir, why don’t you take a break and spend some time on the driving range with a pro?” One of my caddies could lob a ball using the branch of a tree better than I could with a lob wedge. I can compile a 200-page booklet on all the solicited and unsolicited advice extended to me by my caddies and fellow golfers. For me, playing golf has always been a humbling experience. Reading self-help books and watching experts on YouTube has not helped. It is celebration when I score below 100. I am on the winning side only when I piggyback a good player.

I bought my first (and the only) half-set for an easily affordable Rs 3500/- and gifted it to a greenhorn when I was presented a full new set by a dear friend. My second new set was also a gift, from my nephew. I have been lucky in that regard. My long innings on the greens have (mis)led some onlookers and beginners to seek guidance from me. Inspite of my not-so-good-credentials, I have always encouraged them: “Golf is the best exercise, next only to yoga. It requires a lot of concentration; and, your concentration improves if you play golf. It teaches you to put aside setbacks and get going in life… mind-muscle coordination… it is application of laws of physics in three dimensions…,” I have sermonised. To some, I have loaned old balls and my 7-iron. But I have seldom taught anyone anything beyond interlocking grip, basic rules and etiquettes.

When Covid struck and people were confined to their homes, playing golf was out of the question. It wasn’t so for me. I was confined to the sprawling 60-acre Amity University Campus. Hardly anyone entered the University gate those days. I took the opportunity to play golf. I used to take my short irons and a dozen golf balls to the University’s sports ground. For hours on end, I used to hit golf balls from one end of the ground to the other. The best things people associate with golf—good company, good fairways, good greens, a cafeteria etc etc—were missing. But in due course of time, I began enjoying. It was Nirvana!

What was it about golf that I was enjoying so much? Alone? On a football ground?

After much thought, I concluded that the second-best thing about playing golf is the feeling one gets when one hits the ball from the sweet spot of the club-head and watches it take the cherished flight; land and roll to the intended point. It is a top-of-the-world feeling when a few of the fifty odd elements that go into making a perfect stroke, align favourably to give the desired result. The audio, the soft impact and the visual effect—all lead to ecstasy. Much else matters less. Having a friend around who genuinely rejoices when you execute that near perfect shot only enhances that feeling of levitation.

I have shared this thought with many a golfer. Most have echoed the joy of striking the ball from the sweet spot, but, in the same breath they have questioned, “If that joyous feeling is the second-best thing about playing golf, then what is the best thing about the game?” Elementary! The best thing about playing golf is strictly personal. It resides in each golfer’s mind—it is that single reason which beckons them to the greens at dawn, over and over again, when rest of the world slumbers. A dear friend who strives to see every sunrise in the golf course says he is drawn to the game because: “It is the maximum fun one can have with pants on.”

Passport Size Photograph

Oh those customs and traditions of the armed forces!

Norman Dixon’s book—ON THE PSYCHOLOGY OF MILITARY INCOMPETENCE—is a shocking and provocative treatise on the behaviour of the men in uniform. Although his nearly 450-page study—to explain how a minority of individuals come to inflict upon their fellow men depths of misery and pain virtually unknown in other walks of life—is thought-provoking, his work fringes on mocking military personnel. The fact that he talks mostly about the Royal Army is not a saving grace for the armed forces of India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and so many other Commonwealth Countries who are steeped in customs and traditions of the Raj. Thus, what he talks about the British Army, by implication, applies to the Indian Armed Forces too.

In the foreword to the book, Shelford Bidwell points out that the wars were not fought solely with victory as the object—victory being defined, presumably, as a net gain of benefits over costs—but for ‘glory’. To achieve ‘glory’, the war had to be conducted according to certain rules, using only certain honourable weapons and between soldiers, dressed in bizarre and often unsuitable costumes. The bayonet, the sabre and the lance were more noble than the firearm (one British cavalry regiment on being issued with carbines for the first time in the mid-nineteenth century ceremonially put the first consignment into a barrow and tipped it on the stable dung pile). The book is well punctuated with such examples. Dixon’s scholarly work is invaluable; it is well-supported by footnotes and bibliography which runs into several pages.

Needless to say, such scholarly work triggers ‘creation’ of anecdotes, which get accepted as facts in due course of time. One, whose truthfulness can’t be verified, goes like this:

At a firing demonstration of an artillery gun, two members of the fire-power display team took positions on either side of the gun. All through the exercise, they stood motionless, each with a closed fist held a little high; at the shoulder level. It was as if they were holding something. None, including the JCO, knew about the role of those two men in the firing of the gun. Research revealed that long ago, when wheeled guns used to be towed by mules and horses, two men were deputed to hold the reins of the animals when the guns boomed to prevent them going berserk. With time, the horse-drawn carts were replaced by motorised platforms. People didn’t care to reassign tasks to those two men who were no longer required.

Here is another one on the unquestioned Casabianca-like devotion and adherence to trivial orders:

A military formation in Central India had a Jawan deputed 24/7 in all weather conditions to stand guard by a bench in the Unit’s Park. None in the unit knew the purpose. During the re-union of the Unit, a retired JCO, in his late eighties solved the mystery when he asked, “Oh my God! Why do you still man that post. It was created on a temporary basis, sixty years ago, when I was a Lance Naik to prevent anyone sitting on the freshly painted bench.”

Taking cue and liberties from suchlike anecdotes, the film makers and ad agencies have created their own versions of military men. A retired Colonel or a Major being a role model; or a disciplinarian struggling to settle down in the family and society; or a comical character (butt of people’s jokes) was the theme of many a Hindi film of the last quarter of the last century. A recent ad features a burly army officer (or a band master? Mind the rank badges and the ribbons and the medals), with a gun in hand, chasing his Man Friday who is running around a table with a bowl of chholey prepared with ‘Everest Chholey Masala’.

Media does reflect reality to some extent. In real life, things are not too different.

The other day, a freak telephonic request from a clerical staff of one of the service Headquarters made me scratch my head hard. As if that torture on my smooth hairless scalp was not enough—that transaction with the gentleman dented whatever good opinion I had of my looks. “Sir, kindly email another of your passport size photographs,” he had requested.

Just to give the readers the background, I had already sent him a photograph which was required to be printed alongside an article which I had submitted for publication in a magazine.

“What’s wrong with the one I sent earlier?” I asked him. I knew it was a sharp image and nothing could have been wrong with it. “Is there a problem in downloading it,” I queried.

“Sir, it is not passport size,” he said hesitantly. On second thoughts, I felt he was not hesitant; he actually sounded sheepish.

“But it is a digital image. You can re-size, and even crop it,” I said with the air of a person who takes pride in his computer literacy. And, why not? Long ago, I had undergone programming courses in COBOL and Visual Basic in the prestigious (then) Military College of Telecommunications Engineering (MCTE), MHOW and Air HQ Computer Centre respectively. And, I am adept at using many computer applications. That—after getting me trained in programming—the Indian Air Force never utilised my programming skills is an altogether different matter. Although, secretly and silently, I have lugged the regret of not having been able to serve alongside the top brains of the Air Force, I have always taken time to educate the less knowledgeable who came my way. I have motivated (sometimes lovingly ‘kicked’ unwilling horses) and personally taught my men how to use computers effectively.

I thought here was an opportunity to light a candle for a soul groping in the dark.

A word about the photograph which I had mailed earlier. It was the one, which Chhaya, my dear wife had clicked during the Corona Virus pandemic. I had just recovered from a long bout of Covid. In the photograph I was sporting a thick salt and pepper beard and had worn a navy-blue round-neck tee-shirt; a black felt hat and dark round-rimmed sunglasses. It had received many responses, which I thought, were compliments. “Wow! You look like a cowboy,” was one observation. “Looks of a seasoned writer…,” commented another friend. “…that countenance goes well with your forays into film-making and association with the theatre.” Those flattering remarks gave my naïve self a reason to feel elated. I began using that picture wherever I could, including, as my DP on the social media; felt great.

*Disapproved public persona of an Air Veteran*

Returning to this person who wanted me to resend a ‘passport size’ photo.

After he had repeated his demand several times, I was able to elicit the real reason for his insistence. His ‘boss’ had disapproved my ‘iconic’ photo which, I thought, represented the ‘re-attired’ public persona of an Air Veteran of my kind.

There was no point arguing with the conduit, and I did not have the will and the stamina to engage in a discussion with the concerned officer. More importantly, I don’t belong to that category of writers whose articles are in demand and can dictate terms. It is so difficult to get an article published. Withdrawing my article on this ground was out of the question. So, with feigned alacrity, I agreed to comply with the demand. Within minutes, I sent him another of my passport size photographs in which I was well shaven and dressed like ‘an officer and a gentleman’—in a black suit. No hat; no goggles!

At the click of the ‘SEND’ button, I became acceptable. And, as a corollary, my article got the nod of approval.

The next thing I did was to dig out several of my ‘passport size photographs’ and consign them to a folder on my computer desktop. Now I have a collection—A REAL PICTURE for every requirement… tor scholarly articles; for talks to executives; for lectures to college students; to media persons; for theatre and film fraternity. I know, I am going to need them, at least until more people read Dixon.

Little Big Man

These epithets — Taangewallah, Mechanic, Masaalchi, Tailormaster, Electrician and Masterji — had one thing in common; they were invented for a single soul, Babloo. They aptly described the diverse roles the ever-so-ordinary looking short-statured man played in the lives of the citizenry of the sleepy locality of Freegunj in the holy city of Ujjain. Thus, Babloo was Babloo Taangewallah when he took people to the Mahakaleshwar Temple in his tottering tonga drawn by a skeleton of a horse he called Toofan, the tornado. The tonga didn’t belong to him; he got to use it on lease whenever it was available. He spent a good part of the pittance he earned by plying the tonga on the pitiable Toofan. He was Babloo Mechanic when he cleaned, and micro-adjusted the gaps of the spark plugs of their Lambretta and Vespa scooters and checked and topped up the radiator water, engine oil and brake fluid levels of their prized Fiat and Ambassador cars on Sunday mornings. Likewise, he was Babloo Masaalchi when he dominated their kitchens on festive occasions and on children’s birthdays. He could stitch buttons, darn clothes, repair electric irons, kerosene and gas stoves and leaking taps, not to talk of solving arithmetic problems for children. Babloo was a Jack of many trades.

It is also true that people’s minutiae were his missions. He was everyone’s man Friday. People paid Babloo miserly for his services but were generous with their hand-me-downs. Babloo was genuinely grateful when children passed on broken toys and stubs of pencils to him. Less mindful of the renumeration, he took pride in whatever he did and cherished the affection that came as a bonus with those specific-to-service nicknames.

Something in Babloo likened the children and the young adults to Keshto Mukherjee, the character who had become a synonym of the drunk in Hindi cinema. They called him Babloo Afeemchi, meaning drug addict, because sometimes he gave the impression of one high on afeem (opium). Now, that was not because he was a worshipper of Lord Shiva and consumed bhang — a popular local herb which gave a temporary high — once every year on the occasion of Holi. He owed that Afeemchi image to his body language spurred by cumulative fatigue which, in turn was the result of running errands and doing things for people day in and day out. Sheer tiredness caused his spirits to droop and his eyelids to drop, and he seemed to lose partial control of his limbs. That epithet, Afeemchi, pricked him but he bore the pain with a smile. After all they were children.

“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”

~ Luke 23:34

Then there were those who took Babloo to be their personal servant, and treated him more like a slave. But, very few people knew, or cared, about Babloo’s own small world—a wife, Shyama and a son, Munna who had just begun going to Bal Vinay Mandir, the Government Pre-School that had the canopy of a hundred-year-old banyan tree for a roof. The discarded stationery items which Babloo received from people were Munna’s prized possessions.

Once a month, Babloo left Munna in the care of his sister in Desai Nagar, and took Shyama to the matinee show in Ashok Talkies; they both loved to watch films starring Rajesh Khanna and Mumtaz. They always went early to the cinema hall and bought tickets for the second class; and rushed in to occupy the aisle seats because Babloo didn’t like anyone sitting right next to Shyama. A plate of samosas during the interval was a given. No rain, hail or storm could stop Babloo from being there to walk Munna to the school each morning. He’d also make it a point to tell the little one a bedtime story before devoting his full attention to Shyama.

Among the very few who understood Babloo was Dr Jai Veer Singh, the Vice Chancellor of Vikram University. The man of letters was better known by his pen name ‘Snehi.’ They called him, ‘Snehiji’ out of respect which he had earned as much through compassionate social work as through his scholarly achievements. Greeting him with joined hands or, more appropriately, touching his feet, was a reflex action of people when they met him. It was on his insistence that people allowed Babloo four days’ leave every month end—none questioned it. It was believed that it was to visit his old parents in Maksi, a small town not far from Ujjain. A conscientious Babloo always re-joined duty punctually. As a matter of an unwritten rule, he was never late.

Last monthend when he returned from leave, his face was bruised; there was a deep laceration on his upper lip and a dark blue patch under his right eye — the tell-tale signs of a brawl.

It was 6 am; Snehiji was drinking his tea sitting in a cane chair on the veranda of P-21 Kothi Road, the sprawling bungalow earmarked for the Vice Chancellor. He had already turned the pages of two of the three dailies kept on the glass top of the round coffee table in front of him. He preferred to read Nai Duniya last. It was the City Edition of the Hindi newspaper, and contained the local news. He read every word of it. That habit gave him an edge in his discussions with his bureaucrat friends over drinks in Madhav Club every evening.

Babloo tiptoed past him. But the old man caught sight of him when he lifted his head momentarily to take a sip of the well brewed Green Label tea.

“Why, what happened Babloo? How did you get those wounds?”

“I fell down, Sir” Babloo mumbled and continued with a sense of urgency.

“I hope you are fine?” Snehiji genuine concern was laced with doubt. “How can a fall result in those injuries to the face?” he wondered. He resumed where he had left — the City Highlights page. Something caught his attention. He re-read it several times with utter disbelief.

Moments after Babloo returned with the old man’s brogues and penny loafers, and the paraphernalia to polish them, the old man hailed him. “Come here!” His voice was unusually harsh, “What’s this?” He slammed the half-folded newspaper on the table and pointed at a news item for Babloo to read. The headline read:

“Domestic help arrested for theft.”

Babloo read the news:

“Freegunj. January 29. Ramdeen alias Babloo, a domestic help working in several houses in Freegunj was found stealing grocery items at Maganiram Muralidhar Grocery Store. The man was beaten up by the salespersons before the local police took charge of him. The man pleaded that he was innocent. He said he was only carrying the grocery for one Mr Shiv Dayal who had forgotten to make the payment. Mr Shiv Dayal couldn’t be contacted to clarify. One of the customers said that, “Babloo Chor (Babloo the thief) had a history; he’d been seen in the Madhav Nagar Police lock up on several occasions.” Our correspondent has reported that there has been a spurt in cases of thefts in East Ujjain. People have been warned to be watchful.”

“So, you have another trait and a name… Babloo Chor,” Snehiji looked at Babloo, “How could you do that? You have betrayed my trust.”

Babloo stood still like a statue; he stared down at the flooring and kept clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. The toe of his bare right foot tried in vain to inveigle into a hole in the old carpet. He didn’t wince once but bit his lower lip several times when a tear rolled down his cheek and wet a bruise. The pain caused by the salty tear smearing his wounds was far less than that caused by the feeling of loss of face.

“Go away… I don’t want to see you,” Snehiji couldn’t believe that he had, for once, failed in his judgement of a person.

***

Babloo Chor, and the spurt in thefts in Freegunj, dominated conversation at Madhav Club that evening.

“We have relieved Babloo of all duties. I have told my wife, not to let him into our house ever again,” said Dr Sanjay Mangeshkar.

“It is so difficult to find reliable domestic help these days,” rued Mahesh Verma of Verma Constructions.

“Poverty is a sin. I don’t think we must expect loyalty and integrity from people who toil on empty stomachs. We have been paying so little to Babloo. I am not so surprised by his actions. Anyone would do that.” The owner-editor of Dainik Awantika differed.

“But a theft is a theft is a theft is a theft. I don’t think it must be condoned,” opined Mr Qarim Qasimbhoy who owned a chain of stationery shops in Indore and Ujjain. “He is lucky. In Saudi, they would have chopped his hands.”

On the whole the house was divided, nay confused, on the subject of treatment meted out to the ‘Babloos’ of the society. It was one of those rare occasions when Snehiji didn’t air an opinion. Babloo’s demeanour when he left his bungalow that morning had left many questions in the poet scholar’s mind. He had registered the turmoil brewing within Babloo as was evident in his silence. “I couldn’t have been so grossly wrong in understanding the individual in Babloo,” he ruminated as he travelled homeward in his chauffeur-driven Ambassador.

His train of thoughts was interrupted by his driver, Satish: “Sir, Babloo Mechanic has done a wonderful job. The engine isn’t knocking anymore. Todarmal Auto Garage people could not place their finger on the problem in a fortnight,” he said.

Babloo didn’t turn up for work the next morning. The first thing Snehiji did after reaching his office was to call the SHO of Madhav Nagar Police Station.

“Please tell me something about Babloo who was caught for shoplifting at Magani Ram Murlidhar Grocery Store the day before yesterday,” he requested the Police Officer.

“You mean, Babloo Mechanic, alias Babloo Taangwallah,… alias Babloo Masaalchi, Sir?” he chuckled.

“Yes, Babloo Mechanic. He works for me and several others in Freegunj,” Snehiji was serious, business-like.

“Sir, he is a vagabond. But he has an absolutely clean record… not a single black mark.”

“Then, why did you put him in the lock up?”

“Sir. actually, we didn’t intern him… it’s a long story… Babloo was caught for a suspected petty theft more than a year ago. It was proved beyond any doubt that he had not committed that theft. But before his release from our lock up three days later, he had repaired some of our corridor lights and an alarm bell and a leaking tap. Besides, he did a lot of other repair work for individuals; including repairing an electric iron for me. All our people were happy with him. We made it a point to show ‘official’ prison work against his name which earned him a decent amount as a skilled labourer. He was happy and took a cake for his son for his birthday when we released him.”

Snehiji listened intently.

“With mutual understanding, it became a routine. Every monthend, we have been rounding him up for four days on flimsy grounds. During his stay with us, we get our work done from him and make sure that he is compensated handsomely. He even teaches the other inmates. He feels indebted because he gets food and is able to earn enough to buy eatables and toys for his son… it is a symbiotic relationship. The other day, things went out of hand. He was beaten up before we could reach the grocery store and intervene.”

Minutes later, Snehiji’s office car was on its way to fetch Babloo.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your deal with the cops?” said Dr Snehi pretending to be annoyed.

“I thought you’d be offended. Who’d give work to someone who had been in police custody? And, I was in dire need of money to buy things for Munna.”

“But now… look at what you have done… people are calling you Babloo Chor. They have decided to not to give you any work. And, how will you face your son for whom you have been slogging? Don’t worry,” added Dr Snehi soothingly as he held his forearm reassuringly, “I’ll set matters right.”

Babloo stood in wonderment. There was a long pause before Snehiji resumed.

“I have a deal for you. Dataram, my driver is quitting the job. He is off to Bhopal to join his brother. I need another driver. I want you to take his place on permanent basis. I’ll get Munna admitted to a better school and pay for his schooling—his tuition fees, his books and his school uniform. You can move into our servant’s quarter by this weekend.”

Epilogue

A day, not too far in the future, Babloo stopped the car in front of Magani Ram Murlidhar General Store. Snehiji had asked him to get the car refuelled and to buy a packet of Green Label Tea on his way back. Munna was sitting by his side. Dr Shehi had permitted Babloo to take Munna around in the car once in a while. The salesperson, oblivious of who was sitting in the car, came out running, saluted mechanically and enquired, “What can I get for you, Sir?” He was shocked to see Babloo in place of Snehiji in the car. It was too late to bring down the hand raised in salute to the man he had beaten the other day. Munna looked from the salesperson to Babloo, to salesperson to Babloo again. He was mighty thrilled about the new status earned by his father.

Acknowledgement

My special thanks to Air Vice Marshal Sudhanshu Rath for sowing the seed of this story in my mind.

Mission First

To a seasoned skydiver, the vision of a packed parachute on the back… the open door of an aircraft flying a couple of thousand feet above the ground… and a blast of air hitting the face is like a saucer of cream on the mental horizon of a cat.

The exhilarating feeling is irresistible. A jumper would go as far as one can to satiate the desire to skydive. The Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) of the Paratroopers Training School (PTS), Agra are no exception. Drop a pin anywhere on the map of India and in a radius of fifty miles of the pin there will be a place where Akashganga, the Skydiving Team of the Indian Air Force (IAF) would have carried out a skydiving demonstration as a part of a major national event or a military tattoo. If not a demonstration, it would be a paradrop as a part of an airborne military training exercise.

Thanks to my tenures of duty as a PJI, I have been a part of many such displays. From the identification, reconnaissance and exploration of new Drop Zones in the freezing cold Leh-Ladakh region and trial jumps on those Drop Zones, to the exit over the Indian Ocean to land on a target in Thiruvananthapuram, each jump I undertook was different from the other and memorable in a unique way. When I look back, some stand out. An interesting one that often returns to the mind is the one performed as a part of the raising day celebrations of the President’s Bodyguards in November 1998.

I was then the Assistant Director of Operations (Para) at the Air Headquarters.

It was a Herculean task to get the requisite permissions and clearances for the demonstration at the Jaipur Polo Ground. With the who’s who of Indian leadership residing in Lutyens’ Delhi, security was a big concern. Jaipur Polo Ground was not far from the Prime Minister’s Residence. “It would be imprudent to allow such ‘frivolous’ activity in this area,” was an opinion. Then there was the issue of availability of airspace in the proximity of the busy Indira Gandhi International Airport where an aircraft takes off or lands almost every minute and dozens guzzle fuel as they await their turns on the ground or orbit in the nearby sectors. For many well-meaning people, disrupting the air traffic for a skydiving demonstration was an avoidable proposition. An easy way out for those in authority was to say: “NO.”

Notwithstanding what was happening on the files between the Air Headquarters, the Army Headquarters and the South Block in Delhi, the jumpers were agog, drooling. They were excitedly looking forward to the opportunity to jump at the prestigious event to be witnessed by the Supreme Commander of the Indian Armed Forces. Shri KR Narayanan was the then Honourable President of India.

How the permission to undertake the skydiving demonstration came about is the subject matter of another story. Suffice it to say that it did come—somehow. There were caveats, though. We were directed to operate from Air Force Station, Hindan. A team of security experts would sanitise our aircraft and inspect the parachutes for hazardous materials. We were told that they might frisk the jumpers too. Being personally searched was an irksome idea which we brushed aside in service interest. Although the permission had been granted, we were also to await a last-minute clearance from Palam Air Traffic Control (ATC) before take-off. After getting airborne we were to follow a given corridor; report at check points and proceed only on further clearances. The helicopter was permitted a maximum of 21 minutes over the Polo Ground to disgorge the jumpers and clear the area. Would the conscientious security apparatus be obliged to consider the aircraft ‘hostile’ if it strayed from the assigned route, or overstayed its allotted time over the Drop Zone (the Jaipur Polo Ground)? May be. May be not. To us, it mattered little as long as we could jump.

On the D-Day, the team led by Squadron Leader Sanjay Thapar, the then Chief Instructor PTS, arrived from Agra. Group Captain TK Rath, (the Director, Air Force Adventure Foundation), Squadron Leaders HN Bhagwat and RC Tripathi (both of the AF Adventure Foundation), and I joined them at Hindan. We inspected and lined up our parachutes and jump equipment and dispersed, since enough cushion time had been catered for, to account for unforeseen changes in programme. We all had our ways of passing the time available before take-off. Most sat quietly with fingers crossed hoping and praying for the drop to go through, because such VVIP programmes are prone to last minute hiccups. Group Captain Rath immersed himself in a book which he always carried in his overall pocket. He took a break in between to do a headstand. It was his way of attaining peace and calm. Thapar was engaged in communicating with Palam and the controller at the Polo Ground for the updates.

It was “OPS NORMAL!”

Minutes into the break the peace of sorts that prevailed on the tarmac was shattered by a commotion. The Security Team—in civilian clothing—after sanitising the aircraft had started overturning our lined-up parachutes to inspect them. They were alarmed to see sharp knives attached to the straps and had started taking them away.

Squadron Leader Tripathi saw them and literally pounced on them, “What are you doing?” he shouted.

“We are doing our duty… securing and sanitising everything. You can’t jump with these knives.” Their leader said with authority.

“But these knives are our lifeline… we need them in case we have to snap some parachute rigging lines in an emergency.”

“We can’t help it… sharp objects around a VVIP are a taboo,” he drew a line.

Tripathi wasn’t the one to give in easily. He sparred on, “Well, now you have physically handled our parachutes without our knowledge. We don’t know if they have been rendered unfit for use. And, you are not allowing us to carry our survival knives, which is a must for us.” He let that sink in, and then came with the final punch, “Under the circumstances, it will not be possible for the team to jump. Please inform the guys at the other end that the demonstration jump is being called off for these very reasons.”

There was stunned silence before the leader spoke, “We understand your requirements. But you cannot cancel a programme meant for a VVIP and blame it on us. We are all men in uniform. We must find a way out.”

After a little ado, we were permitted to carry our jump knives.

The wait thereafter was long. Panic set in when the clock struck four. It was our scheduled time of take-off. There was no clearance yet. The Honourable President would arrive at 5:00 pm as per programme. In an extreme situation, just in case the Skydiving Demonstration couldn’t be undertaken for any reasons, the Military Band present at the Polo Ground would play martial tunes to entertain the audience. None was interested in that Plan-B; every stake-holder wanted the jump to go through.

In those moments of uncertainty, a deliberate decision was taken to get airborne and hold position over the dumbbell at Hindan airfield so that no time was wasted if and when a go-ahead message was received. So, still on tenterhooks, we strapped our parachutes and boarded the helicopter.

The clearance came 15 minutes too late; we’d now be cutting fine. Our helicopter was asked to hold position over the Yamuna bridge and wait for the final clearance. Time was running out. November smog had begun causing concern. But Thapar, who was born and brought up in Delhi was not deterred by the falling visibility; he knew the ground features by heart. He could manoeuvre blindfolded.

When the final clearance came, there was just enough time to make one pass over the Polo Ground. Under normal circumstances, the aircraft makes three passes over the Drop Zone—one, for the pilot and the Skydiving Team Leader to familiarise with the target on the ground and ascertain the line of run. The other two passes, are to drop jumpers in batches of six to eight each.

A confident Thapar took the decision to do away with the first two passes over the spectators. He briefed the jumpers in the aircraft that all of them—more than a dozen—would exit the aircraft in one go. He re-assigned the parachute opening heights to each jumper and stressed the need to stick to it else there would be many jumpers approaching the landing area together resulting in a melee; maybe collisions.

Good things don’t come easy!

At 5:00 pm, when the helicopter came overhead, the Drop Zone Safety Officer informed that the President had not arrived. “Please hold on!” he advised.

Three minutes later, the Air Traffic Controller from Palam Airport instructed our helicopter to clear the area instantly; international flights were getting inconvenienced. It was when the captain of the aircraft was contemplating abandoning the mission that Thapar leaned out of the aircraft and spotted the President’s motorcade. It would still take a couple of minutes to reach the spectator stands. When he turned back, he had taken the decision.

“Go!” he commanded the line of jumpers awaiting his instructions. Within seconds all the jumpers were out of the helicopter.

The pilots racing back to Hindan airfield saw the colourful parachute canopies adorning the sky over Lutyens’ Delhi. The Honourable President’s motorcade just moved into the Ground as the skydivers began landing one by one. It turned out to be a bit comical when the jumpers responded to the tune of the National Anthem and stood to attention on touchdown.

Cancellation of a para drop is one of the worst possibilities faced by a Parachute Jump Instructor.

Other Parachuting Stories

Tipping the Fear of the Unknown… the very first jump.

Jumping… definitely not to conclusion… what if the parachute fails to open.

Out of the Blue into the Tree!!… and, when one lands in trouble.

Stoic Valour… when a jumper trailed behind a flying aircraft.